Let the Light In
|a place for poetry, quotes, and random et ceteras|
I was 4 years old when Kurt Cobain
Swallowed a shotgun shell.
Instead of his pride:
13 when Elliott Smith carved a mineshaft to his heart,
Trying to excavate the treasures in his chest
15 when Hunter S. Thompson played
Russian roulette with the ghosts in his head.
And finally lost.
When I heard the news,
I would imagine them falling on repeat,
3 picture perfect comets.
Blazing through an indifferent atmosphere;
I obsessed over the thought of.
With the white light tunnel;
It was fascinating.
How they could seal their legacies.
With nails in a coffin:
I thought it was romantic.
How they burned in the face
Of an indifferent astrology.
As if the pain was never too much to bear,
They just had to prove themselves fireworks;
To validate their lives with beautiful explosions.
I was 13 years old the first time.
I tried to follow them.
Killed a bottle of Flintstones vitamins.
Wrote a note that copied Elliott’s almost exactly;
“I’m so sorry. Love, Chris”
Nobody even noticed.
I won’t pretend I wasn’t disappointed.
2 years later marked.
The first time I scrawled
My apologies across my wrists;
I didn’t want to die.
I just needed to know what secrets my pulse was hiding
So I carved a question mark into my veins
Kurt, I imagined us blood brothers in my bathroom sink.
My arms bleeding tsunamis;
I was a stupid boy who didn’t know.
That a razorblade didn’t have the firepower.
To stop the tempest in my head.
I think that’s why you chose a shotgun shell
To exorcise your demons.
Too many of my friends.
Joined me in your footsteps
With their wax-paper wings.
Dreaming of ignition;
They bought razors.
So they could greet the dawn.
With a deeper shade of crimson—
We needed to prove.
We could love life better from a distance.
Promising that we could burn brighter.
Than some too-stagnant Zodiac.
We swore we’d never be constellations,
We’d be shooting stars.
Because we knew.
Everything is beautiful when it burns.
We were overzealous arsonists
With our headphones blaring the siren songs
That dragged us ashore. On repeat.
We prayed they’d bring us home;
Or at least they’d teach us to be fireworks.
I was one of the lucky ones;
The scars on my forearms read
“Here lies another would-be escape artist.
Who could never find a way to make suicide stick,”
I don’t wish on shooting stars anymore.
Because I’m sick of watching
All the luminous things.
Turn to ashes before my eyes
And every meteorite reminds me of the days chasing Icarus
Of searching for the sun on the inside of my wrist.
So when the comets come, I find myself mourning
For every star that fell short and didn’t leave a note,
Found a pre-emptive cremation.
And finally learned how to fall beautifully
What is a sorority?
If it’s really anything at all,
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